“Of course, I do,” he said. “He used to call me ‘Why-it.’ Thought my name was hilarious.”
A sad smile tugged at my mouth. “He did.”
Wyatt swallowed. “I wish I’d known.”
“So, do I,” I said.
He brushed his thumb over my knuckles. “I’m glad you told me now.”
“So, am I.”
The moment stretched—gentler now, still charged but no longer fragile.
“I was going to kiss you,” I admitted softly.
His lips curved into a small, careful smile. “Good.”
“But maybe,” I added, “not this second.”
“Also good.”
He rested his forehead against mine again. “We’ve got time.”
And for the first time since that summer—since Jonesy, since the move, since everything—I believed that, too.
I stayed there with him a little longer, letting the moment settle. My face pressed against his chest, my hands still fistedlightly in his shirt like I needed the physical proof that he was real.
Wyatt didn’t move. He didn’t fill the silence with reassurances or questions or platitudes. He just stayed. Breathing slow and steady, like he understood that what I needed wasn’t fixing—it was permission to exist exactly as I was.
Eventually, my tears dried. The tightness in my chest eased into something softer. Tender, but manageable.
“I really hate that you carried that alone,” he said quietly.
“I didn’t know how not to,” I replied. “It became … normal. Being the one who didn’t talk about it. The one who adapted.”
He tipped his head slightly, resting his chin against my hair. “You shouldn’t have had to be that strong.”
The words landed deep. I swallowed hard again, but this time the emotion didn’t spill over. It just settled.
“I learned how to compartmentalize really well,” I said. “How to function. How to smile. How to keep moving.”
“And how did that work out?” he asked gently.
I let out a small, breathless laugh. “Apparently, I cry in parking lots when I feel safe.”
His chest shook with a quiet chuckle. “Seems like a reasonable response.”
I pulled back enough to look up at him again. The streetlight cast soft shadows across his face, highlighting the seriousness in his eyes, the patience there. No rush. No expectation.
“I didn’t plan on telling you tonight,” I admitted. “I didn’t even know I was ready.”
“Sometimes, ready isn’t a decision,” he said. “It’s a moment.”
I nodded slowly. “I think I’ve been running from moments like this for a long time.”
“And now?”
“Now, I’m tired of running.”
